"GIT ALONG CAYUSE"
It was dark when Bartley arrived at his hotel in San Andreas. Not caring
to parade his black eye and his swollen mouth, he took his evening meal
at a little Mexican restaurant, and then went back to his room, where he
spent the evening adding a few more pertinent notes to his story; notes
that were fresh in his mind. He knew what it felt like to take a good
licking. In fact, the man is unfortunate who does not. Bartley thought
he could write effectively upon the subject.
He had found Dorothy's quiet sympathy rather soothing. She had made no
fuss whatever about the matter. And she had not insisted that he stop at
the ranch and get doctored up. Little Jim had promptly asked Bartley,
"Who done it?" and Bartley had told him. Little Jim asked more questions
and was silenced only by a promise from Dorothy to buy him more
cartridges. "That is, if you promise not to say anything about it to
Aunt Jane or Uncle Frank," she stipulated. Little Jim gravely shook
hands upon the agreement. Dorothy knew that he would keep his word.
This agreement had been made after Bartley had left them. Dorothy had
sworn Little Jim to silence, not so much on Bartley's account as on her
own. Should the news of the fight become public, there would be much
bucolic comment, wherein her name would be mentioned and the whole
affair interpreted to suit the crude imaginings of the community.
Bartley also realized this and, because of it, stuck close to his room
for two days, meanwhile making copious notes for the new story.
But the making of notes for the story was a rather tame occupation
compared with the possibilities of actual adventure on the road. He had
a good saddle-horse, plenty of optimism, and enough money to pay his way
wherever he chose to go. Incidentally he had a notebook and pencil. What
more did a man need to make life worth while?
And then, somewhere along the southern highway Cheyenne was jogging with
Filaree and Joshua:
Seems like I don't git anywhere:
Git along, cayuse, git along.
Bartley rose and stepped to the window. San Andreas drowsed in the noon
sun. Far to the north he could see a dot of fresh green--the cottonwoods
of the Lawrence rancho. Again he found himself in the grip of
indecision. After all, a fellow didn't have to journey up and down the
land to find material for a story. There was plenty of material right
where he was. All he had to do was to stop, look, and listen. "Hang the
story!" he exclaimed peevishly. "I'll just go out and _live_--and then
write the story."
It did not take him long to pack his saddle-bags, nor to get together
the few articles of clothing he had had washed by a Mexican woman in
town. He wrote a brief note to Dorothy, stating that he was on his way.
He paid his hotel bill, stepped round to the livery and paid for Dobe's
entertainment, saddled up, and, literally shaking the dust of San
Andreas from his feet, rode down the long trail south, headed for Joe
Scott's placer, as his first stop.
He would spend the night there and then head south again. The only
living thing that seemed interested in Bartley's exodus was a stray dog
that seemed determined to follow him. Turning from the road, Bartley
took the short cut to Scott's placer. Glancing back he saw that the dog
was still following. Bartley told him to go home. The dog, a very
ordinary yellow dog, didn't happen to have a home--and he was hungry. So
he ignored Bartley's command.
Whether or not he imagined that Bartley was different from the run of
townsfolk is a question. Possibly he imagined Bartley might give him
something to eat. In any event, the dog stuck to the trail clear up to
Scott's placer.
Scott was not at the cabin. Bartley hallooed, glanced round, and
dismounted. On the cabin door was a note: "Gone to Phoenix. J. Scott."
Bartley turned from the cabin to find the dog gazing up at him
mournfully; his expression seemed to convey the idea that they were both
in hard luck. Nobody home and nothing to eat.
"What, you here!" exclaimed Bartley.
The yellow dog wagged his tail. He was young and as yet had some faith
in mankind.
Bartley tied his horse and strode up the trail to the workings.
Everything had been put in order. The dog helped investigate, sniffing
at the wheelbarrow, the buckets, the empty sacks weighted down with rock
to keep them from blowing away, the row of tools, picks and shovels and
bars. Evidently the owner of the place was not concealed beneath any of
these things.
Meanwhile the afternoon shadows warned Bartley that a camp with water
and feed was the next thing in order. He strode back to the cabin. There
was no problem to solve, although he thought there was. The yellow dog,
an old campaigner in the open, though young in years, solved his problem
by a suggestion. He was tired. There seemed to be no food in sight. He
philosophically trotted to the open shed opposite the cabin and made a
bed for himself in a pile of gunny-sacks. Bartley grinned. Why not?
Experience had taught Bartley to carry something else, besides a
notebook and pencil, in his saddle-bags. Hence the crackers and can of
corned beef came in handy. The mountain water was cold and refreshing.
There was hay in the burro stable. Moreover, Bartley now had a happy
companion who licked his chops, wagged his tail, and grinned as he
finished a bit of corned beef. Bartley tossed him a cracker. The dog
caught it and it disappeared. This was something like it! Here was a man
who rode a big horse, didn't kick stray dogs, and even shared a meal
with a fellow! Such a man was worth following forever.
"It would seem that you have adopted me," declared Bartley. The dog had
shown no inclination to leave since being fed. There might possibly be
another meal coming, later.
"But what am I going to do with you?" queried Bartley, as the dog curled
up on the pile of gunny-sacks. "You don't look as though you habitually
stopped at hotels, and I'll have to, until I catch up with Cheyenne.
What's the answer?"
The yellow dog, all snuggled down in the sacks, peered at Bartley with
unblinking eyes. Bartley laughed. Then he made his own bed with
gunny-sacks, and after smoking a cigarette, turned in and slept well.
He did not expect to find the dog there in the morning. But the dog was
there, most evidently waiting for breakfast, grinning his delight at not
being cursed or kicked at, and frisking round the cabin yard in a mad
race after nothing in particular, and indicating in every way possible
that he was the happiest dog that ever wagged a tail.
Crackers and corned beef again, and spring water for breakfast. And
while Dobe munched his hay, Bartley smoked and roughly planned his
itinerary. He would travel south as far as Phoenix and then swing back
again, over the old Apache Trail--if he did not overtake Cheyenne.
If he did overtake him, the plan might be changed. It did not matter. He
had set out to find his erstwhile traveling companion. If he found him,
they could just as well travel together. If he did not, Bartley
determined to see much of the country. In so far as influencing Cheyenne
in any way--that would have to be determined by chance. Bartley felt
that his influence with the sprightly Cheyenne weighed very little
against Cheyenne's hatred for Panhandle Sears.
Once more upon the road, with the early morning shadows slanting across
the valley, Bartley felt that it was his own fault if he did not enjoy
himself. Swinging into an easy trot he turned to see if the yellow dog
were following him. At first Bartley thought the dog had shown wisdom
and had departed for San Andreas, but, happening to glance down on the
other side of his horse, he saw the dog trotting along, close to Dobe's
heels.
Bartley felt a pity for the dog's dumb, insistent attachment. Reining
in, Bartley told the dog he had better go home. For answer the dog lay
down in the horse's shadow, his head on his paws, and his eyes fixed on
Bartley's face. He did not seem to know what the words meant. But he did
know--only pretended he did not. His rooftree was the Arizona sky, and
his home the place where his adopted master camped at night.
"Oh, very well," said Bartley, smiling in spite of himself.
That noon they stopped at a ranch where Bartley had dinner and fed his
horse. Cheyenne had passed that way several days ago, the ranch folk
told him. It was about twenty miles to the next town. Bartley was
invited to stop by and spend the night, but he declined the invitation,
even as they had declined to accept money for their hospitality.
Meanwhile the dog had disappeared. He had not followed Bartley into the
ranch. And it was some twenty minutes or so after Bartley was on the
road again that he discovered the dog, coming round a bend on the run.
There was no getting rid of him.
The dog, who had often been chased from ranches by other dogs, had at
first waited patiently for Bartley to appear. Then, as Bartley did not
appear, the dog made a short scout through the near-by brush. Finally he
stirred up a rabbit. It was a long, hard chase, but the dog got his
dinner. Then, circling, he took up Bartley's trail from the ranch,
overtaking him with grim determination not to lose sight of him again.
Arriving at the town of Stacey early that afternoon, Bartley arranged
with the local liveryman for the dog's keep that night. From that night
on, the dog never let Dobe out of his sight. It was evidently intended
that he should sleep in stalls and guard Dobe against the approach of
any one save his master.
Bartley learned that Cheyenne had passed through Stacey headed south. He
had stopped at the local store to purchase provisions. Estimating
roughly, Bartley was making better time than had Cheyenne, yet it would
be several days before he could possibly overtake him.
Next day Bartley had ridden better than forty miles, and that night he
stayed at a ranch, where he was made welcome. In fact, any one who rode
a good horse and appeared to be even halfway civil never suffered for
want of a meal or a bed in those days. Gasoline has somewhat diluted
such hospitality, yet there are sections of Arizona still unspoiled,
where the stranger is made to feel that the word "home" has retained its
ancient and honorable significance.